The Inconsequential Consequences of Sin
by juncici
Summary: The lives of Akako, Hakuba, Aoko, Kaito, and KID.
1. bed head

**This was meant for hattergems only. But she kept remaining offline, and who cares about her anyways?**

**Honestly. ;)  
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Before Kuroba Kaito, the biggest problem Koizumi Akako ever had was with her hair.

It was a messy, massive thing, wine-red and just as directionless. Three hours each night was spent smothering it with a plethora of hair products, ironing, washing, re-ironing; over and over until the routine was seamless--but it was never that, was it? There was always a new problem at the end of the night. A flyaway, dead ends, the-crown-that-just-would-not-bounce. Fixing her hair became an obsession--a new challenge every night.

She remembered it when she sat down in front of her mirror one day. KID was scheduled for another attack on the pride and manhood of Nakamouri's 1412 Squad, and she had her work cut out for her. Every day the blond detective in her class sniffed a little closer to KID's blood, and KID was either so far up his ass that he didn't bother to care--or he was just genuinely dim enough to not notice. Frustrated, she toyed with the idea of just letting KID dive and fall, but the thought of losing stopped her from entertaining the idea further. Instead, her gaze set on her often abandoned iron.

She hadn't used it in months.

She looked up into the mirror, and her eyes stared back--the eyes of a stranger. She couldn't recognize those blood-irises some times, worried and thinking. And on her head, falling in soft, silky layers, wine-red and not so terrible--bodied, and she can deal with that--laid her hair. Perfectly fine. Beautiful, in fact.

With the introduction of Kuroba in her life, her hair problems had magically disappeared. Or maybe they had never been there in the first place.

She felt that the sudden revelation should have meant something. She felt it, but knowledge remained elusive.

So instead she grabbed her keys and went to save her Kuroba from the bloodhound.


	2. rabbit silk

* u*b I wrote this months ago for Sara. Since I can't seem to write anything decent, I'll just put this up.

No italics, because I'm too lazy for that shit, yeah.

_._

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_._

**its raining its  
pouring the old man  
is snoring  
****he went to bed and  
bumped his head and  
couldn't get up in the**

**mor-**

**ning.**

Perhaps, when they look back on this (hair dyed in age, face carressed by time) they will see themselves as entirely laughable. Perhaps the soft leather-lines in this jacket of a problem will cease to exist, each crease black to brown to brown to white, the stitches frayed and showing the soft, vulnerable underside of it all. Perhaps they will finally find themselves mustering the courage to gently lift that thousand dollar wine from the glass box it was encased in-leaving it painfully empty and still, the glass obstructing the lights from the other side until everything shone like ice-with an audible clink and a twist of a smile. Perhaps, even, they will laugh. They will take the years and force it down the thin chut of an hourglass, watching the quartz mix dully with the wine and twisting it back and forth, side to side, force it all up and down and down and up within hours, humour so bitter-sweet that only good chardonnay could nudge it out.

Perhaps it is as they say-that time smooths away the tears, that which could be measured with the unjudging pointers of a grandfather clock could somehow lift away the pieces-leave it broken, but saved. Perhaps time really is the elixir. Perhaps if you can capture it and pour it into a jar, bottled like french jam and aged along with the golden sunlight, you can smear it on your tongue and taste it all flowing down like a thickly coiling river. What does time taste like? Did it make a sound? Did it go tick, tock, tick, tock, like the crocodile in Peter Pan, who ate time and made it sing? Who opened his wide jaws and allowed Captain Hook to fall in, whole.

His hair, she noticed (she noticed this first, the way you catch the dawn in the morning cold) piled over every strand in blank inky light, tightly packed down with the silk rim. It hung low in his forhead with glistening sweat-moonlight glue-crawling along the curvature of a single, perfect monocle. Glass cut cyan across his face from the ricocheting light, doting each bead of exertion as if climbed down a tired, drawn face, nose flared with the need for oxygen; lips open wide, each pale-pink and dried, teeth a slight shade too dark. This is KID. Aoko does not think about this. She knew it the minute she saw the way the rabbit silk spilled over the ledge of Kaito's bed, still stained with the childhood dreams of a little boy-red rockets and mirror-warped smoke-his gloves drenched and discarded like socks.

Aoko stands, hand ghosting over the round doorknob, a frozen smile on her face. She imagined hearing the crocodile. Tick, tock-tick, tock-tick-tick-tick-tock.

(-the mouse ran up the clock-)

(-the old man woke and bumped his head-)

(-Captain Hook screamed; fell in-)

(and didn't wake up in the morning)

She wondered what time tasted like.


	3. kryptonite

Have I a clue what commenced for this situation to be?

Never.

**krytonite**

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He felt a sort of subtle delight to all of this.

For one thing, he was clothed, and the other was not. There was always a sort of power lent to the wearer whenever the right clothing was donned (a good reason why he was always crisp and dashing)—and no matter what you wear, having clothing was better than no clothing at all. The other was what was in his hands and what was facing the other. A heavy trigger hooked on his forefinger, and the round, cold eye of a gun barrel.

Unfortunately, this delight was quickly trampled by fear induced sweat and trembling of his lungs, heart beating rampage against his breast so that he felt bruised from the inside. The gun wasn't a gun at all, in a sense, for it shot cards of thin aluminum which could cut flesh and vein but not bone, dicing the heart right into two halves from the right angle. Even so, even if his gun didn't shoot bullets instead, and had very little chance of damaging the man for far more than his eye, he still couldn't look at the naked man the in face for very long, for what he was about to do. So he took a chance and looked away, and didn't see the other man open his mouth.

"What would Aoko think?" were his first words out of a prisoner's mouth.

Nakamouri-keibu had looked up at the young man and had instantly known the truth. Kaito knew this. There was always a change in expression when such things passed.

Neither felt triumph but both felt bitter delight. Nakamouri for his whole life's purpose to finally coming to an end. Kaito for the savage monster that crept down his right arm.

(He had to do this quickly, or he might never muster the courage to, ever.)

"I'm sorry."

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_"I'm so, so sorry." He whispered again, when the deed was done._

(That night, in his own bed, Kuroba Kaito cried the tears of a coward)


End file.
